Alfred F Jones, Private Eye
by Sergeant Obvious
Summary: AU. Alfred Jones is a young detective in 1920s New York, investigating a mysterious kidnapping. Rated T for violence.


A/N: Umm... hi. ^__^;; I'm Agent Zeppelin, and this is my first time writing Hetalia fic. Hopefully not the last. XD;;

I own nothing.

Enjoy!

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In many ways, Toris's day started before he even woke up. After years of working for Mr. Braginsky—no, Ivan; his boss had insisted that they go on a first-name basis, because they were the best of friends, _da_?—he had subconsciously started using the short lull between sleep and wakefulness to plan his day. Get up, make Ivan coffee, maybe with a splash of vodka to make him easier to deal with. It wasn't as if he minded anyway, the man drank the stuff like it was water. Then, of course, there were all those deliveries to make. His younger brothers would probably have to help him with those—

Toris suddenly realized how quiet their shared bedroom was. Raivis usually talked in his sleep, and Eduard had a bit of a snoring problem, but he couldn't hear anything besides the city bustle outside. New York was an early riser, even more so than he was. But that was beside the point. Right now, he had to remember Mr. Carriedo's address, or he couldn't make the delivery, and Ivan would—

Suddenly, he felt the cold steel of a knife against his neck, and in his semi-conscious state, all he could think was what a shame it was that all his plans for that morning would go to waste.

A loud crash startled Alfred out of his chair. Instinct told him to reach for his gun, and the desk drawer he kept it in was only half unlocked before a flash lit up the dark office and another crash sounded. He paused, slowly putting two and two together, and relaxed. Just a thunderstorm. Taking a deep breath to steady himself, he locked the drawer again and climbed back onto the leather seat, resting his feet on the desk.

_Huh. Maybe Matt's right about all that coffee making me jumpy._

He picked up the mug in front of him anyway, nursing it as he listened to the rain pounding against the window. It hadn't been raining this hard a couple minutes ago, had it? Maybe he'd just fallen asleep. Alfred took a swig of his coffee and immediately regretted it, wrinkling his nose. Nothing worse than cold coffee. He sighed, set the now-empty mug on the corner of his desk, and reached for his lighter instead. Pulling a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, he lit up and inhaled deeply.

No, this job wasn't exactly what he'd imagined it would be back when he practically slept with a detective novel under his pillow. He'd come in on the first day, bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, and expecting a line of beautiful dames outside his door. They gave him a stack of paperwork and sent him on his way. At least the office was nice, and the pay wasn't all bad, either. But a part of him still half-expected a beautiful dame to just waltz right through his door, any moment now—

There was a loud knock. _Right on cue, _Alfred thought, pleasantly surprised. He put out his cigarette, swung his feet off the desk, and subconsciously smoothed back his blond hair. Though, of course, that stupid forelock still wouldn't listen to him.

"'S open, ma'am," he answered, trying to sound hard-boiled but unable to keep the excitement out of his voice.

The office door opened with a creak, and Alfred's visitor hesitantly stepped inside. He was tall, big-boned, and wore a scarf in spite of the warm spring weather. Most certainly _not_ a beautiful dame. Alfred cleared his throat, as if he could blame his awkward mistake on a chest cold.

"Uh, sorry, sir."

Luckily, the tall stranger didn't seem to notice the younger man's blunder. Instead, he slammed a photograph onto his desk with enough force that the coffee cup tipped over. Not sure he wanted to make any sudden movements, Alfred slowly reached out and set it upright. The stranger giggled, surprisingly, and slid the photograph towards him. He picked it up and adjusted his glasses for a better look. A dark-haired young man about his own age stared back, a tired yet genuine smile on his face.

"I need you to find this man." The stranger's Russian-accented voice was higher than Alfred would have expected, but he listened and nodded all the same.

"The police say he is dead." A pause. "But the police are not always right, yes? Or else you would be out of a job." Another flash of lightning highlighted the odd glint in his violet eyes, the calm but sinister smile on his face. He was no beautiful dame, that was for sure. But Alfred had the feeling that he would be just as interesting. He grinned right back and stood up, extending his hand.

"Alfred F. Jones, private eye, at your service."

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Thanks for reading! Reviews are greatly appreciated! ^__^


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